THE nymph must lose her female | The Rose soon redden'd into rage,

HEU inimicitias quoties parit æmula forma,
Quam raro pulchræ pulchra placere potest!
Sed fines ultrà solitos discordia tendit,
Cum flores ipsos bilis et ira movent.

Hortus ubi dulces præbet tacitosque recessûs,
Se rapit in partes gens animosa duas,
Hic sibi regales Amaryllis candida cultûs,
Illic purpureo vindicat ore Rosa.

Ira Rosam et meritis quæsita superbia tangunt,
Multaque ferventi vix cohibenda sinû,

Dum sibi fautorum ciet undique nomina vatûm,
Jusque suum, multo carmine fulta, probat.

Altior emicat illa, et celso vertice nutat,
Ceu flores inter non habitura parem,
Fastiditque alios, et nata videtur in usûs
Imperii, sceptrum, Flora quod ipsa gerat.

Nec Dea non sensit civilis murmura rixæ,
Cui curæ est pictas pandere ruris opes.
Deliciasque suas nunquam non prompta tueri,
Dum licet et locus est, ut tueatur, adest.

"Et tibi forma datur procerior omnibus," inquit,

66

Et tibi, principibus qui solet esse, color,

Et donec vincat quædam formosior ambas,

Et tibi reginæ nomen, et esto tibi."

His ubi sedatus furor est, petit utraque nympham
Qualem inter Veneres Anglia sola parit;

Hanc penes imperium est, nihil optant amplius, hujus
Regnant in nitidis, et sine lite, genis.

THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE PLANT.

AN Oyster cast upon the shore
Was heard, though never heard
before,

Complaining in a speech well worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded :—
Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd
to dwell

66

For ever in my native shell,
Ordain'd to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease,
But toss'd and buffeted about,
Now in the water, and now out.
"Twere better to be born a stone
Of ruder shape and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibilities so fine!
I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Fast rooted against every rub."
The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough,
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied.

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When, "cry the botanists, and
stare,

"Did plants call'd Sensitive grow

there ?"

No matter when-a poet's muse is
To make them grow just where she
chooses.

"You shapeless nothing in a dish,
You that are but almost a fish,
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you.
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unletter'd spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he;
And when I bend, retire, and shrink,
Says, "Well-'tis more than one
would think."

Thus life is spent! oh fie upon't,
In being touch'd, and crying-
"Don't!"

A poet, in his evening walk, O'erheard and check'd this idle talk. "And your fine sense," he said, "and

*John Pinkerton, Heron was his nom de plume. Cowper was very indignant at the publication of these letters.

THE SHRUBBERY

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.

Он happy shades! to me unblest,
Friendly to peace, but not to me,
How ill the scene that offers rest,

And heart that cannot rest, agree!
This glassy stream, that spreading

pine,

Those alders quivering to the breeze,

Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,

And please, if anything could please.

But fix'd, unalterable Care,

Foregoes not what she feels within, Shews the same sadness every where, And slights the season and the

scene.

For all that pleased in wood or lawn,

While Peace possess'd these silent
bowers,

Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has lost its beauties and its powers.

The saint or moralist should tread
This moss-grown alley, musing
slow;

They seek like me the secret shade,

But not like me, to nourish woe.

Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste,

Alike adinonish not to roam; These tell me of enjoyments past, And those of sorrows yet to come.

THE POPLAR FIELD.

THE poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade,
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade!
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view
Of my
favourite field, and the bank where they grew;
And now in the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade!

The blackbird has fled to another retreat,
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,
And the scene where his melody charm'd me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.